Title: In Memory I
Author: Becka
Chapter 7: Reflection
o
Draco Malfoy came from a prestigious family. He could trace his ancestry back to a time only remembered in fairytales, back to when knights really did slay dragons, and wizards were not only known to the Muggle world, but feared and revered by them as well.
His family had been around for a very long time, and in that time, had developed extensive codes of conduct, rules and etiquette, that befitted the name "Malfoy."
Raised by an aristocrat, by a Malfoy, Draco had been given lessons in formality and protocol since he could remember. Lessons on how to dine at family gatherings, the proper way to sit, which fork to use and how to hold it.
He'd done the standard book-balancing on his head – cliché, yes, but it was vital to maintain one's balance at all times, shoulders back, spine straight, head tilted ever so slightly up as to always give the impression of superiority. There had been lessons in speech – his least favorite had been reading aloud from the dictionary, expanding his vocabulary and refining his pronunciations in the same breath – and the subtle art of manipulation, using tone of voice and body language, had been a painstakingly instilled in him.
Draco had been schooled in many things. The courses and lessons he'd attended had varied, and sometimes he understood why they were so important, and sometimes he didn't. He'd learned though, because it made his father proud.
It wasn't that he hadn't had a normal childhood. For being heir to one of the most prestigious pureblood families in the wizarding world, Draco's life had been shockingly normal. Aside from his lessons, his days were his own.
He was allowed to ride any of the horses in his fathers stables, and he and his two best friends, Vincent and Gregory, could often be seen racing in the lovely expanse of meadow that was his backyard. The three boys were excellent riders, but on the few occasions they did take a tumble off their steeds, the house elves were always quick to cast safety-net spells.
Malfoy Manor was a beautiful mansion, filled with so many rooms and hallways that Draco never grew tired of exploring. With Greg and Vince by his side, he raided the kitchens, discovered secret passages, and stargazed in the towers. His childhood had been filled with stolen bottles of butterbeer, picnics in the woods, games of Exploding Snap, Wizard's Chess, and Jinx.
Draco couldn't ever remember a time where he wasn't happy. How could he not be? He'd had his father's love, two best friends, and a word of magic to explore.
He led a dual life, though. Just as his lessons and pastimes were very so different, so were the faces he displayed in public and in private. To the wizarding world, he was a Malfoy: sneering, haughty, and arrogant. But to his father and his companions, he was just Draco, just Dray, just a loving son and a loyal friend.
Both attitudes were part of him, but he'd never had trouble keeping them separate. He'd never not known how to act – to the world he was Malfoy; to those he loved, he was Draco. It was that simple.
Harry Potter changed all of that.
School had been in session for nearly a month, and every day Draco found himself slipping. He'd say something as a Malfoy – a casual comment about Muggle-borns, or a thoughtless remark about one of the other houses – only to look over and see Harry's eyes watching him.
There was never any reproach in Harry's expression, never any hint that the words bothered him, but somehow Draco would find his stomach in knots. Harry's mother came from a family of Muggles. Harry could be seen walking in the halls with that Hufflepuff, Longbottom, or that Ravenclaw, Granger, or that Gryffindor, Thomas.
And the fact that Harry never seemed to get bent out of shape over _any_ of it made Draco feel that much worse.
He'd look into Harry's eyes and think, "He really doesn't care."
He'd look into those bright, green eyes and think, "That's not the Harry that sits next to me on that ridiculous red and green bed and translates everything Samson says, even the unimportant bits, just so I won't feel left out."
He'd look and stare as deeply as he could and think, "Do I know you?"
There were certain rules that a Malfoy was expected to adhere to. In public, for example, he had to make subtle, cutting remarks about those who were inferior to him, namely Muggles and all houses not Slytherin. It was just the way things were done! But how could he make those remarks without slurring Harry?
That tied into another Malfoy belief – if someone was worthy of being friends with, it was a total breach of protocol to insult them in any way.
A Malfoy wasn't supposed to feel ashamed, wasn't supposed to want to apologize.
But in nearly every conversation Draco had, he found himself wanting to do both. It didn't even matter if Harry was there, because all he had to do was picture those vivid green eyes, and something in him would instantly rebel.
More often than not, the words, "What would Harry think?" ran through his mind.
And so, bit by bit, he found himself reining in the comments and toning down the jibes.
With only a month in Harry's company, Draco found himself changing.
The observer, the Slytherin in him, marveled. Not just at his own change, but at the subtle changes of the other students of the school. Harry, despite his dual sorting, could be found walking with members of every house. That, in its own right, was a phenomenal accomplishment. House prejudice had been a part of Hogwarts dating back to when it was founded - the infamous rivalries of Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff.
It made sense that the rivalries were still around, because the key characteristic of each founder was the stone upon which every house was built. How could someone who valued bravery, who rushed into a situation and acted on instinct alone, possibly understand someone who valued cunning and preferred to play it smart and wait for the best opportunity to present itself? How could someone who valued intelligence, who surrounded themselves with books and reveled in silence, get along with someone who defined themselves by group loyalty and loved spending their time surrounded by friends?
Yet in a month, Harry had befriended Longbottom and Granger and Thomas. There were others of course – Pansy Parkinson was practically an extension of Granger, and a few other Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs could be seen in Harry's company as well.
Greg and Vince didn't count – they were Slytherin at heart.
Despite the fact that Harry was technically half-Gryffindor, with the exception of Dean Thomas, the Gryffindors displayed open hostility towards the Boy-Who-Lived. But their Head of House, Professor McGonagall, seemed to favor Harry, both because of his gift in Transfiguration and his skill in Quidditch.
The rest of the teachers were mostly in awe of Harry, save Professor Snape. As a whole, the Slytherins accepted Harry unconditionally, but Snape seemed to have a personal vendetta against the Boy-Who-Lived that was unparalleled. He never took off points, but he would use any excuse to give Harry detention. It seemed to be a bi-weekly ritual – every Tuesday and Thursday night, Harry could be found scrubbing cauldrons, cleaning workstations, or preparing some of the more unsavory ingredients used in potions.
Not that Harry ever complained.
Harry didn't complain when Snape gave him detention no matter how little he'd done to earn it. He didn't complain when the Gryffindorks insulted him in the halls. He didn't complain or roll his eyes or say anything in his own defense – he just accepted it complacently, with a silent nod or casual shrug.
Draco had thought that the boy who had so often featured in his nightly stories would be outspoken, full of life and laughter. He had envisioned emerald eyes that twinkled and a smile that could outshine the sun. He'd pictured them darkening at insults and flashing with anger as he gave as good as he got.
He had not expected a Harry who was strangely subdued – a quiet, unobtrusive observer with calm eyes that missed nothing. When Harry spoke, his voice was soft, and he rarely laughed. And yet, there was still something about him that was strangely charismatic. Something that instilled both respect and trust.
No matter how much Draco trusted Harry, there was something that had bugged him ever since that night in Harry's room – the first of several occasions when Draco had swallowed his Malfoy pride and apologized. When he'd playfully kissed Harry's hand, just before Harry had pulled away, Draco had seen a curious set of scars.
He'd been too flustered at the time to really think about it, but looking back, he could clearly picture the crosshatch of thin, white marks. Looking back, he wondered what sort of injury would leave such marks.
There were other things that stuck out as well. Harry was always awake and changed before the rest of the Slytherins. Harry didn't touch anyone, and on the few occasions that someone's hand brushed by his, or someone patted him on the back, he flinched away. Harry was unflappably calm, but it was an unnatural sort of calm; nothing _ever_ bent him out of shape.
Harry smiled sometimes, but usually it was only when they were alone in Harry's room, lying on the bed as they talked with Samson.
And sometimes, just sometimes, Draco would catch a peek at Harry's arms. There _were_ scars on them, thin, white ones, and thick, rigid ones. Scars that Draco, for all his theorizing, couldn't come up with any plausibly explanation for.
o
Harry Potter was an enigma.
Harry Potter, son of James Potter – the most arrogant bastard to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts. A virtual carbon copy of James, with his mussy black hair and his pronounced cheekbones. A menace in potions, certainly, and while the boy was fairly adept in his theories, his practice rivaled that of the Hufflepuff, Longbottom. To date, Longbottom had melted thirteen cauldrons, whereas Potter had only destroyed seven.
Harry Potter, son of Lily Evans – the only Gryffindor who ever gave Severus the time of day. Perhaps not so different from Lily, either, with identical emerald eyes that Severus had never found a hue to match. In every detention, set to scrubbing cauldrons, cleaning desks, preparing raw potion ingredients, Potter had demonstrated her quiet grace and calm acceptance.
Severus loathed Potter, wished nothing more than to successfully dismiss the boy from his mind, and yet, every one of his Slytherin instincts was sounding the alarm.
Why was it, for example, that Potter usually only made small mistakes with his potions, mistakes common to any learning student during most classes, and yet, every time Severus stepped out of the room, Potter's cauldron erupted or melted?
Either the boy was intentionally making the gross errors, or someone else was making them for him.
When someone had fouled James Potter's potions so many years ago, in jest or in prank, the irritating Gryffindor had been quite vocal about it, ensuring that everyone knew he was not the one at fault.
But every time Severus gave Potter detention, the boy simply said, "Yes, sir," and quietly set about cleaning whatever mess had been made. Accepted the punishment without protest, as if he deserved it.
Severus hated things that didn't add up.
Another matter of concern was the boy's detentions. He always arrived precisely on time, never early, never late.
It irritated Severus. James Potter had never been one for punctuality.
And no matter what task Severus set to the boy, no matter how disgusting or demeaning, Potter complied without complaint. He performed his detentions efficiently, never shuffling his feet or muttering about the unfairness of it as most students did.
Severus hated that he couldn't find fault with any of the work.
And of course, always at the back of his mind, was the potion that the Potter-brat had delivered during his second detention. Severus _knew_ the boy hadn't gone to Diagon Alley for the supplies, though he supposed it was possible one of the upperclassmen might have generously provided the necessary ingredients. Still, the boy hadn't booked time in the dungeons to _brew_ the potion.
Students who booked extra time to complete assignments were carefully monitored; every student signed an enchanted book on the way in that recorded what potion they brewed. It was impossible that someone else had done Potter's assignment, simply because no one had made any cures for acne.
So how had he completed the assignment on time? Unless Potter had a comprehensive lab squirreled away in his trunk, it was simply impossible.
Any of the incidents alone might not have aroused his suspicion, but there was definitely something about Potter that merited observation.
And so, Severus observed.
At mealtimes, he covertly studied the boy. Despite his dual sorting, he always sat with the Slytherins, usually sandwiched between Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini. Occasionally the Potions Master reveled in this; James Potter was probably spinning in his grave.
It did seem odd to him that his house accepted Potter so readily. With their parents – most of whom had been Death Eaters – filling their heads with stories of the damned Boy-Who-Vanquished-The-Dark-Lord, Severus had fully expected Potter to turn to the Gryffindors after the first night.
That Potter seemed to be closest to, of all students, Draco Malfoy, was lunacy.
Cursing his Wizard's Debt, Severus made a note to speak to the Headmaster. Lucius would undoubtedly pounce on the situation. The eldest Malfoy would attempt to use his son's closeness to the Boy-Who-Lived to draw him in and destroy him.
Either that, or turn him into the next Dark Lord.
Severus bit back an amused snort at the ridiculousness of _that_ particular notion; Lucius had been one of Lord Voldemort's most loyal servants.
Severus' thoughts instantly turned to Quirrell. Having been a spy for most of his life, he'd had no difficulty spotting Quirrell's scheming. He'd seen the man quizzing several teachers on information about the Sorcerer's Stone. Such queries, however innocently stuttered, made it clear that the other professor was planning on stealing it somehow.
The question Severus couldn't answer was 'why'.
He _knew_ the Dark Lord was somehow involved. Though it seemed impossible, the Dark Mark on his arm begged to differ. Ever since Quirrell had shown up, the dull ache beneath his skin had doubled to noticeable discomfort.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Lucius and the other Death Eaters were similarly affected. If so, he'd have to double his watch on the Potter-brat. If the Dark Lord did return, nothing would gain them higher favor than delivering the boy into Voldemort's hands.
With a scowl that sent the students in front of him scattering, Severus silently cursed James Potter and his bloody Wizard's Debt.
o
Hermione Granger was a brilliant witch.
Despite the fact that she was Muggleborn, and despite the fact that she had never even heard of magic before her letter from Hogwarts, she still managed to rank in the top percent of her class. Part of it stemmed from her natural ability, she supposed, but most of it came from her burning desire to succeed.
Even from the time that she was a little girl, she'd always been ostracized for that. The boys and girls in her class had picked on her, never letting her sit with them, and calling her names when she was in hearing distance. It didn't matter that she got A's on all of her tests and most of them struggled to maintain low B's and C's. If anything, that only made them angrier.
Hermione had never really been popular. She wasn't pretty, and her hair refused to lie flat like the other girls. She didn't bother with ribbons or jewelry because she'd never felt it mattered. Her mother had always told her not to wears bows and bangles if she didn't _want_ to wear them. Even if these children couldn't accept her for who she was, there would be others. And, her father always added, when she finally did meet those children, they would become the sort of friends to keep for life.
It wasn't until she arrived at Hogwarts that she truly understood what he'd meant.
When she'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, she'd been incredibly pleased to find herself in a house renowned for being studious. When she'd taken her seat during the feast that day, a pretty girl whose hair was tied back with ribbons offered her a shy smile. And that night, she found that she and the girl – Pansy Parkinson – shared more than just a room. They shared the same burning thirst for success.
Needless to say, they'd hit it off spectacularly.
No one in Ravenclaw ever teased her because of her hair. No one cupped their hands over their mouths as they whispered about what a loser she was, to study all the time. No one made fun of her for spending her nights in the common room with Pansy as they poured over their latest class assignment.
The older students praised her, patting her on the shoulder with fond smiled when she earned them house points. The younger students competed with her, vying for the position as top of the class. And if she won that prestige for the week, they weren't angry. They simply tried harder, pushing themselves to do better after they congratulated her on her victory.
Pansy wasn't at all jealous that Hermione got better marks in her subjects. Instead, she told Hermione how she was proud to have such a marvelous friend, and she had no qualms asking Hermione to explain something when she didn't understand.
In the same regard, Hermione found that she wasn't really jealous that Pansy was pretty, and on the nights that they weren't studying, Pansy would brush Hermione's hair for hours, giggling as she added ribbons and shiny, little clips. She'd pull flashy dress robes out of her trunk and doll Hermione up in them, and then they'd parade in front of the mirror, preening as it complimented them.
Everything about the wizarding world seemed so spectacular, but there was one thing that bothered Hermione. Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff were all very nice to one another, but the moment a Slytherin stepped into the room the atmosphere would change. The Ravenclaws would bury their noses into their books, and the Hufflepuffs would look away. The Gryffindors would cup their hands over their mouths and mutter about "the slimy Slytherin git," and sometimes they would try to bully them, fighting over trivial things.
It wasn't as though the Slytherins didn't fight back, and sometimes they would attack with the Gryffindors first, but Hermione could understand that. After all, she'd been bullied in school before, and she understood the need to lash out at her aggressors before they lashed at her.
There was one boy, though, who did not fight back. In fact, he seemed to make an effort to associate with members of _all_ the houses, despite his seemingly shy nature. He was an excellent student, and though he was quiet, he carried a presence that Hermione couldn't understand; she'd spent hours analyzing it to no avail.
Despite his Slytherin connection, the older members of her house did not ostracize her for talking to him. In fact, one or two had encouraged the polite friendship. And oddly enough, it was only the Gryffindors who occasionally snipped at her, despite their own connection to him.
Hermione nibbled the tip of her quill thoughtfully, and glanced at Pansy who was currently curled up in a chair, reading her Astronomy textbook. Hermione looked down at her own textbook, then at her notes. She read over what she'd been writing, pausing only to cross out Harry Potter's name, which she'd absently scrawled on the corner of the page.
o
Fred Weasley stared at Harry Potter with a curious look on his face. Across the room, George Weasley did the same. When Harry glanced up, they averted their gazes, but after a moment they looked towards each other.
A curious smile stole across Fred Weasley's face. Across the room, George Weasley's mouth curled, just the same.
o
It was one thing, Dean Thomas mused, to talk about high-minded ideals like bravery and understanding. Standing up for those ideals, though, was apparently a completely separate issue.
The dark-skinned boy sighed, snuggling into one of the plush chairs of the common room as he absently flipped through the pages of his Transfiguration book. Many of his fellow Gryffindors were scattered around the room. Jennifer and Sally-Anne sat side by side near the fire, frowning in concentration as they muddled through one of Professor Sprout's assignments. Ron and Seamus were on their third game of Wizard's Chess, and Lavender and Parvati were giggling, heads bowed together as they talked. Probably about "girl stuff" as his mother would say – whatever that meant.
In fact, every first year Gryffindor could be accounted for, save one.
Until Dean got his Hogwarts letter, he'd had no idea such a fantastic place as the wizarding world existed. Things like magic wands and spells and potions were the stuff of fairytales, and no matter how pleasant, he'd long since outgrown the days when his parents would sit by his bedside and read the adventures of King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and Merlin.
But after he'd traveled on the Hogwarts Express, followed the other students through the woods and down the dark, winding path, come to the clearing with the lake and looked up –
– there it was.
Hogwarts.
At the time, Dean didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful and magical in his entire life. And when he'd actually gotten a look inside of the glorious castle, with its merrily twinkling torches and its welcoming fires, with portraits that moved and talked like real people, and one thousand other little things that he'd never believed were possible, well, to say he'd felt overwhelmed was an understatement.
And best of all, not _one_ person had commented on his dark skin.
At Dean's old school, there was always a student or two who'd been raised to hate anyone with dark skin, or an older teacher who'd grown up in an age where it was acceptable to treat someone of African descent like they weren't human. Things were changing, of course, but no matter how Dean looked at it, the future seemed so far away.
Here, though, none of that mattered. It was like his housemates and his teachers had never given a thought to such a difference, and he was treated exactly the same as everyone else. There were other students with dark skin too, all of them from old, wizarding families. None of them seemed the least bit surprised that they were treated like equals.
To him, the lack of prejudice was more magical than any wand waving or potion making could ever be.
It had taken him a few days to catch on, but he'd soon come to realize that just because people weren't giving him a wide berth because of his skin didn't mean that prejudice didn't exist. It had simply found a different target.
His housemates dislike of the Slytherins, to some small extent, he could understand. School rivalries were bound to happen anywhere, and it wasn't as though it was one-sided. Even the teachers seemed to play favorites – Professor Snape _never_ took house points off his own house, and while Professor McGonagall was mostly fair, she rarely awarded Slytherin any points.
The exception to every rule, though, was Harry Potter.
When Ron tried to convince all of the first years that Harry had been wrongly placed in Gryffindor, Dean hadn't paid much attention. After all, just because it was rare for someone to be equally brave and cunning didn't mean that it _couldn't_ happen. But because one of the redhead's older brothers, Percy, seemed to share his views about the "slimy Slytherin git," many of the Gryffindors had followed in suit.
There were a few who didn't seem entirely comfortable with the idea of ostracizing one of their own, himself included, but they went along with the rest of their house because they didn't want to be shunned themselves.
Dean had been tempted, very briefly, to just ignore Harry like everyone else – not to say that he'd insult him like Ron – but he'd remembered his old school. He _knew_ how it felt to have people hate him for something he had no control over, and he just couldn't do that to someone else.
So he walked with Harry in the halls when he could, and paired with him in class assignments, and did his best to try and convince some of the other Gryffindors that just because Harry was part Slytherin didn't make him the monster that Ron said he was.
Dean didn't understand how anyone could call Harry a monster. It wasn't like he was intimidating – he was a good six inches shorter than most of the first years, and he was soft-spoken and unbelievably polite. Yeah, he was a little on the strange side, but Dean chalked that up to not really knowing where he stood. Being sorted into two houses probably made it a little difficult to settle in.
With a sigh, Dean glanced around the common room again.
Harry never, ever spent time in the Gryffindor common room. The one time he'd tried, Ron had spent the entire time insulting him. When the angry redhead had brought up Harry's parents and how they'd be ashamed than their son had ended up as a back-stabbing Slytherin, Harry had stood, politely excused himself, and retreated to the safety of his room.
Dean offered a silent prayer; hopefully the slimy Slytherins treated Harry better than the supposed golden Gryffindors.
o
Slytherin and Gryffindor. An unlikely combination, especially considering who young Harry Potter was. There was something about him, something he couldn't quite grasp. Curious indeed.
So many questions – the dual sorting, the Alteralius spell, reports from both Severus and Minerva. And the interactions with the other houses – Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw. The child's own houses – Slytherin, Gryffindor.
Raised by Muggles, and yet, so easily able to immerse himself into Hogwarts. And Hogwarts! The glorious castle had taken an instant shine to the boy, hadn't it? Quite curious, that Hogwarts would go out of her way to maneuver her staircases and connect her hallways to get to boy to class quickly when he was late.
Young Harry hadn't noticed yet, or had he? One could never be sure.
Lily Evans' eyes, so bright on that childish face. Eyes the color of the Killing Curse. The child was fated, always had been, hadn't he?
Perhaps if he'd taken the time to visit him – had intended to, hadn't he? But there was always more work to be done, more plans to put into action, more subtle poking and prodding of the fools at the Ministry – no time, no time to spare.
Still, the wards were in place, no harm could have come to the child? Trusting this, too trusting perhaps, and Harry himself – such a strange boy. Not at all as expected, where was his awe, his smile, his laughter? Could it have been that the Dursleys didn't treat him well? If that was the case – abuse? Surely not! – wouldn't the child be grateful? And yet.
As always, and yet.
Had to watch him, closely, more closely, but no time to do so. And young Malfoy, quite curious, perhaps the boy might be saved? The father far too set in his ways, but there's hope for the child. Slytherins as a whole, why was it they respected him so? Respect, or perhaps something more?
More plans in action, and Quirrell, curiously enough. Bad spot of decision there, but necessary, young Harry must know the dangers, what better way to introduce him? Still, no harm can come to him, not yet, not now. People need an icon, need Harry Potter, need the Boy-Who-Lived, don't they?
And yet.
Albus Dumbledore nibbled the tip of his beard thoughtfully.
And yet.
o